A/N: Sorry this has taken a little while to update. In return for your patience: an extra long chapter. I hope you enjoy.

..
an open eye
..

I know that key, the one I can hear sliding into the lock of my hotel room door.

And before I go on, just let me ask: have you ever been lonely? Like, really, seriously lonely? As in – completely alone.

I really hope not, because it sucks.

But if you have ... then maybe you'll get it.

Because I know I said before that being with Mark was just being alone in stereo, and I stand by that.

But at least stereo means company.

(Yes, I know I'm shooting myself in the foot. I know that. If you haven't figured out yet that I'm an expert at destroying any chance I have to fix my life – well, just keep watching. Or watch me on fast-forward like I'm doing in my own mind now: night after embarrassing night when I keep telling myself I'm done sleeping with him but … he has a key.)

A key I gave him.

So most nights, since I moved into this box of a non-home, I didn't even have to make the choice. He let himself into my room and I could act surprised even though I could have put the chain on, if I'd wanted to.

That was then.

Now, here, in the present moment, I can hear his key in the lock again – it fits, of course it fits. Of course it fits.

I hear the electronic buzz that means he has access, the one that sounds like gotcha.

I'm just standing in the open bathroom doorway now and what I'm thinking about is this poem – yeah, I know, but it's like a dozen words, about as much poetry as this bio major can remember. It goes like this:

You fit into me
Like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye

It's a … what's the phrase again … a "love poem with a twist."

Boy, do I get that. There's clearly a reason that's the only poem I remember from the mandatory literature classes I took in college. It's me, except my life is ninety percent twist to ten percent love poem.

The door rattles, and there's the sound of the key again.

He hasn't given up.

It's a sign of just how surreal life in Seattle is that I'm kind of … touched by that, in a way.

My husband gave up on me while we were still married.

(I know, what was it my husband said in the supply closet that day: you probably thought Mark was your friend too.)

The two of them, Mark and Derek, are the two counterpoints of pretty much my entire adult life.

I don't know how to turn that off. Sometimes, I don't think I know how to do anything anymore.

There's that clicking again. The key.

And now the door is rattling again.

Oh, did I mention I actually put the chain on tonight?

Yeah. I'm surprised too. And proud of myself, a little. Maybe.

And then I hear his voice, rumbling through the cracked door, which is open the small amount the chain allows.

"Addison. What's up with the chain?" he asks through the gap.

"What do you mean?"

... yeah, I guess I've given up pretending not to be home.

"I can't open the door," he says.

I make my way toward the sound of his voice.

"I know you can't," I tell him. "That's what's up with the chain."

Good comeback, right?

"Addison … you're being crazy."

"Actually, I'm being smart." I study the few-inch gap in the door the chain allows. "Change the process to change the outcome," I recite. "I can't seem to say no when I'm in a room with you … so I'm just not going to be in a room with you."

He's quiet for a moment, still bracing the door.

"What if I don't like that outcome?" he asks.

"It's my experiment," I remind him.

There's a long pause.

"Look, I didn't come here for sex, Addison," he says finally.

It's a sign of how far my life has come ("far," to be clear) that I don't even mind having this conversation through a door, in a hallway, of a hotel, basically in public.

"Yeah, right you didn't."

"No, really." I hear him shift a little, I move a step closer, and one blue eye comes into focus. "I just wanted to check on you," he says.

"You did?"

"Yeah, I did. You know, see how the hangover's going."

"Oh."

"So … are you?"

"Am I what?" I ask.

I wait for him to say are you going to open the door?

But he says, "Are you all right?"

I take a step back instead of answering. I can still see one blue eye through the crack in the door and part of his head; he nods encouragingly.

And I tell him I'm all right.

I lie, in other words, and I search what I can see of his face to try to figure out whether he can tell. He looks sad, I think.

Or maybe it's just my own reflection in his eyes.

He rattles the door a bit now, gently.

"Addison … chain…?"

Right.

I close the door again, pull off the chain and then open it.

And I'm not going to do anything, I'm just going to talk to him, just have a little human contact.

"You look tired," he announces as soon as he's inside.

"Is that supposed to turn me on?"

"No." He smiles amiably as he walks over to me. "I don't need a lot to turn you on, remember?" He pulls me toward him with one big hand – I hate myself for shuddering a little when our bodies make contact; can I help it that I'm chronically starved for touch?

He just smirks at me. "It's one of my favorite things about you, actually."

"Mark … we're not doing this, remember?"

He steps back, raising his eyebrows, and I hate myself for missing the contact.

Skin on skin, that's what we do with babies who are born too soon, to make them feel alive. I might be a surgeon and a pretty damned good one but sometimes it's apparent I might have the emotional intelligence of a twenty-four-week preemie.

And Mark is just looking at me.

He's here, in my hotel room. He's just … here.

Looking.

"Take off your shirt," he says, his voice low.

Okay, so much for looking.

I do it.

I'm not proud of it, I'm not proud of me, but I do it, and he's watching me the whole time in a way that makes my insides turn over. I'm not so far gone I don't get it, that getting naked is the best way of keeping his attention, but I'm not sure I can acknowledge it without admitting things I don't really want to think out loud, so –

Yeah. I do it.

"You're mixing it up," he notes with a combination of disappointment and approval, indicating the bra I'm wearing – a different one from last night, of course, despite his suggestion this afternoon. This one is a pale pink, so pale it's almost white, mostly satin. It works with the fabulous black blouse because any slippage and it will just look like part of my skin.

(I know, the jokes make themselves: even my lingerie lies. Just like me.)

"Look at you, Addison. You're a blushing bride." He grins at his own joke and then frowns. "Hey. You are actually sober, right? I don't need Derek threatening me with a breathalyzer and the sex offender registry again."

Record-scratch.

So much for being turned on.

"Yes, I'm sober."

"Good." Then he frowns again. "But not too sober …?"

See, just when I'm about to give up on Mark, I remember that he gets me in this one particular way. The way where he can acknowledge that if I'm not a little drunk, I might not put out. Neither of us likes ourselves very much, you know? Which makes me wonder … if we only like each other a little more than that, does that add up to more than zero?

I stop doing math because he's apparently picked up my drift so I let him open a bottle of wine, pour us both glasses of a red big enough to distract me.

It could almost be civilized, except for the fact that I'm wearing a bra instead of a shirt and he's not bothering to pretend to look at my face.

"So. The hangover's gone but you're still stressed out, huh?" he asks when I've drained my glass.

I shrug.

"What is it this time?" We're sitting on the side of the bed and he brushes some of my hair away from my face so he can get access to my neck; I let him for a minute – he's actually been surprisingly restrained for the whole glass of wine. Then I remember how little I want to swear a scarf tomorrow.

"Cut it out."

He doesn't seem bothered. "You're distracted, Addison. I get it. Is it that intern you were yelling at? What's his name again? The one on my service tomorrow?"

"Karev?" Hopefully he won't notice anything in my tone. I stand up and set the wine glass down, which is a mistake because I need something to do with my hands. "What about him? And I wasn't yelling at him," I add.

"I don't know, he's got a mouth on him. Maybe he's been mouthing off." Mark pauses, then smirks. "Or maybe you'd like him to."

"Mark."

"Hey." He widens his eyes, sets his own wine glass down and joins my pacing. I can actually feel the warmth of his body behind mine even though he's not touching me. "Maybe your husband isn't the only dirty attending who's after the interns …?"

"That's disgusting. And he's my ex-husband." I stop walking. "Mark."

"Hey, I'm not judging. Whatever gets you off." He takes a few steps forward, so I have to take them backwards, and then my back hits the wall. "Tell you what. How about a little role play? I'll be an intern … and you can tell me what to do."

"Mark – "

"That's intern Mark to you." He laughs a little and kisses me when I don't say anything in response. "Go ahead and give me some orders."

(Stop judging. I swear, this isn't working on me. I'm just – tired, and lonely, and if you knew what he was doing with his hips right now….)

"How about if I order you to leave me alone?"

"Ooh, that's the one thing that's not in my job description."

Somehow, even though I'm backed against the wall, he's still advancing. Little things like sheetrock don't get in the way of Mark Sloan's conquests, I guess.

I can't stop myself, I guess. All I can do is try to take back a little control.

And then I'm unbuckling his belt, keeping my eyes lowered so I don't have to look into his and see they're a mirror of mine.

The thing is, hating Mark is like hating myself and I already hate myself enough for both of us.

And I don't know if that math makes sense, or if it just adds up to a big zero like the rest of my life.

So all I do is lower myself down, slowly, and when I look up at him from under my lashes I can see that his gaze is fixed directly on me.

Just me.

It's enough to make me feel almost like I'm in control.

Of this, of us, of me.

Of anything.

Look, I never said I wasn't a cliché. The thing is, I was a late bloomer.

Somewhere in between eleventh and twelfth grades, when being taller than half the boys changed from a joke to a challenge … boom. It happened.

And just like that, the first time I made a boy beg – some paint-by-numbers lacrosse jock at the country club who didn't give me a second glance the summer before – I felt it. Pulsing in my veins louder than the music at the social we abandoned. And even though I was the one on my knees in the cabana shed that smelled of old seaweed, and I was the one who had to swig gin straight from the bottle afterward to get the taste out of my mouth – he was the one who wanted it. Who wanted me. And I felt powerful.

… okay, it's possible I could use some therapy. But in lieu of that, I choose to numb the pain.

I'm here, and Mark's here, and I let myself fall back in.

..

When he's returned the favor and then done his best Mark Sloan performance of alternately trying to shove me through a wall and trying to crack the box spring of the mercifully sturdy hotel bed, and we're lying there recovering, he says: "You know something … I thought you might screw Derek when I left last night."

His tone is casual, like he wouldn't be bothered one way or the other.

I don't say anything.

"And what's funny," he continues, "is that I don't remember the last time I thought that."

"Huh?" I'm a little confused. Maybe my brain is still recovering from what he just did to the rest of me.

"Forget it," he says lightly.

"We're divorced," I remind him.

"I know." He's trailing his fingers over my back now, and I keep shifting because I'm ticklish or uncomfortable or something. "So? That means you didn't screw him last night, I take it?"

I have one of those unfortunate smash-cut memories from last night, like I had earlier today, it's dark and quiet in the room with a handful of yellow city lights splattered on the white duvet, and I'm climbing astride the man I was married to for eleven years, and pretty much begging him to have sex with me.

And he's saying no.

Twice.

He's holding me anyway, and that's the awful part, the really embarrassing part. The part I would never tell Mark. He'd probably just think I was covering up something more scandalous – more sexual – and that kind of says all I need to know right now about the three of us.

"Of course we didn't," I say without looking at him.

"Good." His hand is molding around me now in a sort of possessive way, but it's Mark – he doesn't possess anyone; he possesses everyone.

It's not that he's not attracted to me. And I know he cares, sort of, in his way. It's just that he's Mark and he'd screw anyone and he feels attracted and care to pretty much any living woman.

Sometimes I don't understand how I could have sought out Mark for attention when what he does is actually the opposite of making me feel special.

I'm sober now, is the thing.

Well, fine, not sober, but a glass of wine is basically a glass of water when you're me.

So yeah, I'm sober and I made a terrible decision anyway.

I'm making one, because Mark is Mark and apparently we're not done.

"Wait," I tell him. "Mark … stop."

He groans with frustration. "Seriously, this again? I couldn't get you off me last night, I already got you off tonight, and now you're back to the shy girl at the sorority formal?"

"No." I sit up a little. "And you know, it's not exactly a crime if a sorority girl says no, either."

"Oh, come on." He sits up. "I didn't come in here for sex ed."

"No, just for sex."

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Addison. Like it's not what you wanted."

"Maybe I don't want it anymore."

His gaze slides down my admittedly mostly naked body.

Yeah, I take his point.

"I don't think I have another round in me tonight, okay?" I say it with as much dignity as I can.

"You," Mark says doubtfully. "You are closing up shop after one round? Who are you and what have you done with the Addison I know?"

"Look, I do … appreciate it," I tell him, and immediately feel awkward about it when he raises his eyebrows.

"You're going to thank me for sex?" he asks, looking amused. "Again?"

"No." I feel myself blushing now. "I just mean – this is it, Mark. Really. Remember? Co-workers, and nothing more."

His brow furrows. "Yeah, I remember that speech. How long was it after that that you were getting naked in my hotel room?"

"That's not the point. The point is, I'm done." I pull the sheets up a little higher to prove my point, hiding my breasts from his view. Not that he couldn't probably have a sketch artist draw them perfectly just from memory by now, but it's the principle of the thing.

"You're done," Mark says slowly. "With me, you mean."

"Yes. This … part of you, anyway." I gesture vaguely toward his naked body.

He looks like he's thinking, and I'm not sure about what.

"And Derek?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're done with him?"

I look at his face to see if it explains why he's asking the question, but I can't read it.

"Of course I'm done with him, Mark. We're divorced."

"Yeah." He shakes his head a little. "I'm not talking about the papers, Addison. I'm talking about all this – whatever the two of you had going on. You're fighting with Derek, he's fighting with you, you're having showdowns in scrub rooms, he's drunk, you're drunk …." His voice trails off. "It's over? You worked it out?"

Um.

Only in the most liberal definition of worked it out, right?

As in … no, we didn't.

"It's over," I tell Mark instead.

It tastes as uncertain as I feel, but I'm banking on his not noticing. It's Mark, who notices things like my hemlines and my … stamina, but I don't think he's ever put that much thought into whether I'm telling the truth.

"We're working together," I admit. "Derek and I. On the triplet case."

There's no recognition in his eyes.

"So, you know, we need to get along. Be friends."

"You and Derek. Friends." Mark's expression is doubtful. "How much alcohol will that require?"

How long do you have?

"None," I tell him primly. "It's not about that. It's about – moving forward. You know, being healthy, taking steps to – would you stop that?"

"What?" he asks, with that freaking innocent expression again.

I move his hand pointedly away. "I said I'm done."

"Be done in the morning," he suggests. "No reason to waste a perfectly good – "

"Mark."

"Fine." He lifts his hands, oh so innocent.

The truth is, I'm tired.

"You can't stay over," I tell him, which here in this unfortunate hotel dreamworld is usually enough to get him to stay.

(I'm not proud of it, but I'm not really in the mood to sleep alone, either.)

"Fine." He swings his legs out of bed, and I have a nice view of his bare back while he gets ready to walk out on me.

"You sure you want me to go?" he asks once he's finished stepping into his pants.

No.

Well, I'm sure it's a bad idea for Mark to stay over, but I'm also not sure I'm going to be able to sleep alone.

But there's no going back now.

"See you tomorrow," I tell him.

..

I'm tired when I wake up.

I'm tired of waking up.

Ignore that. I know how self-pitying it sounds. I know how maybe this has gone too far, maybe you need help, maybe the treatment is more complicated than alcohol and sex.

My point is … I'm tired when I wake up.

I'm also alone.

I'm lying on one side of the big white bed – my side, if we're talking about the bed I used to share with my husband. The other side is empty, but there's a dent in the pillow. It sounds like the beginning of a sappy romance or better yet a horror movie, but it's just the mark left behind before Mark left my room last night.

And yes, I let him screw me last night in the bed where Derek wouldn't let me screw him the night before. The same bed where Derek sat next to me to tell me our marriage was over, right after Mark screwed me in it for the first time.

If I tell you I know housekeeping changes the sheets every morning without fail, is it any less screwed up?

… I didn't think so.

When I study my face in the mirror I look too old for this kind of thing and too young to be this tired.

The fabulous black blouse I wore yesterday is still sitting in a puddle on the carpet by the entry to the bathroom, where I took it off last night under Mark's watchful eye.

I don't feel fabulous right now.

I feel a little nauseated, actually – which reminds me that I didn't eat dinner last night.

I take advantage of that to wear my skinny-skirt, the one that only gets airtime certain weeks of the month. It zips up with zero effort, so I guess that's something.

By which I mean … I have a lot of dresses.

Really great dresses.

Even after having to throw out a fair number of pieces from my wardrobe before I came to Seattle … I still have a lot of really great dresses.

But dresses are harder to put on by yourself.

Someone should write a book, unexpected facts for the unlikely divorcee. Maybe I'll write it in all the downtime I'm bound to have if I can actually keep Mark out of my bed. And one of those facts will be, expect to wear a lot of skirts until you figure out how to zip your own dresses.

It's not that the skirt doesn't look good.

It looks good.

But it's the reason why my heels are tapping out the sound of di-vorce, one-two, a-lone, three-four on the marble floors of the lobby, or maybe it's actually Morse Code because I bump right into Mark waiting on line at the espresso bar like he was waiting for me all along.

(He wasn't. Mark Sloan doesn't wait.)

He doesn't say anything – he does buy my coffee, which I accept as payment for yesterday's dairy-filled disaster.

"You want a ride?" he asks finally when I find myself walking in semi-step with him toward the revolving doors. Of course he's had his car called up already.

"I don't know, can you keep your hands to yourself?"

"While I'm driving?" He raises an eyebrow. "How desperate do you think I am?"

"Don't ask me to answer that." I take a sip of coffee. It's not bad. "And as for the driving part … you do remember I've been in a car with you before, right?"

He pauses with one hand on the revolving door. "Oh yeah." He turns to smirk at me. "I definitely remember that." He taps a finger to his temple as if to remind me that he can call up any number of x-rated memories of me whenever he wants.

Great. So much for power.

"Addison."

"Yeah?"

"You want a ride or not?"

..

I need to eat something.

I'm not a huge fan of breakfast – under some circumstances, like hungover circumstances for one, sure. But generally, food and I don't go that well together before I've at least downed a few cups of coffee.

But my body is apparently on the long list of people who are against me, because my stomach has an empty gnawing feeling that I should probably fill with … something.

My legs feel a little shaky, whether from keeping them crossed in the other direction from Mark's hand in the car – which is prone to wander, which I know won't surprise you – or just because I'm still tired in a way that sleep doesn't seem to fix.

So I'm staring into the big silver vat of porridge in the cafeteria waiting for inspiration.

It looks … gluey. But it should tide me over to lunch, at least. I pause, wondering if I should dump it back and find a yogurt instead.

"Are you serving that oatmeal or studying it for microbes?"

I glance over from the oatmeal bar to see Callie Torres, and I realize I'm still holding a full ladle of beige-colored glob in one hand, a paper cup in the other.

"I think microbes would give it more taste," I joke weakly. I'm trying to keep it casual but part of me is flat out excited to see her.

A friendly face.

I look back into the vat of oatmeal, which is beige and lumpy and far less friendly.

I realize how it looks – like another form of self-punishment. But food is fuel to me; always has been. It's pretty boring.

(Luckily, I have other ways of exacting self-penance, like liquor, and giving in to Mark.)

"Suit yourself." Callie grins at me. "Hey – we should have lunch later."

"Yeah?" I hear the hope in my voice and I hope she's not as disgusted by it as I am.

"Yeah. Not just because your breakfast is so uninspiring."

(She doesn't seem to be, thankfully.)

" … but, partially because of that." Callie salutes me with her granola bar. "Does one work?" she suggests. "I have a case at two-thirty."

"Sure."

..

The nice thing about working – working a lot, working hard, working at the kind of work where not paying attention isn't an option, and being amazing at the work that you do – is that it's distracting.

It fills up those empty spaces and hours, keeps you from dwelling on your mistakes, your regrets and your past, your inability to walk down a hall most days without attracting stares and the depressing lack of space from the hardest thing you've ever had to deal with.

Or at least it's supposed to.

I have a meeting with Team Triplets in … a couple of hours. I need to prep, I need to review Eleanor's latest results. I have plenty of work to keep me busy and a merciful lunch date to bisect the day. So I should get started.

But for some reason – the same muscle memory that slipped those damn rings back on my fingers? – I find myself standing at the board instead.

There's muscle memory again, or maybe just a regular memory: I'm standing in the same spot months ago, leaning back looking up at Derek hoping I don't look hopeful as I feel. Because hope makes you weak. He's congratulating me on signing my contract and I'm searching his face to see if he means it. We're okay, right? That's what I asked him.

Ugh.

I could go back and shake that version of me, leaning back against the wall to make herself a little smaller in case that's what Derek needed: to feel bigger.

We always took up the same amount of space, the two of us, but sometimes I think we took turns growing and shrinking like our marriage was Alice in fucking Wonderland.

Yeah, we're okay.

That's what he said.

(I'm not the only liar in my marriage.)

Our marriage. The thing that's over. The thing he didn't say was over, yesterday morning, in my hotel room, when we were dutifully acting out our parts.

He didn't say it.

He just – left.

And he still hasn't told me why.

And he's not on the board, and I know he's not rounding, and he's not in a department-level meeting because I'd be there too.

If I still know him, with nothing emergent, then he's in his office, drinking coffee and reviewing his charts.

There's a moment when I stand there daring myself – not sure if I'm daring myself to do it or not to do it – and then I'm heading for the elevators.

..

"Hi."

His office door is open when I rap lightly on it, but he's closed – Derek has enough focus that a door is meaningless. If he's working, if he's immersed, nothing can interrupt.

He looks up from his chart. "Addison," he says, looking a little surprised to see me but not particularly hostile, which is … something, I guess.

There's a paper cup of coffee next to his hand.

"Derek."

He tilts his head a little when I don't start talking. "Is it the Rivers triplets?" he asks. "Did something happen?"

"No," I tell him quickly. "It's not the triplets. I just wanted to – um, to finish our conversation."

"Our conversation," he repeats. "From last night, you mean. About the triplets."

"Not about the triplets, Derek!"

He raises his eyebrows; I lower my voice so I sound a little less frustrated.

"Not about the triplets, Derek," I repeat, more calmly now. "Before the triplets, before all that … we were having a conversation."

A conversation. It's a generous way to refer to that quick exchange: Did you mean it? Yes.

"We were having a conversation?" He sounds genuinely curious.

"No," I admit. "But … well, kind of. We were having a – proto-conversation. Before you got paged, we were having a proto-conversation."

"A proto-conversation," he repeats. "I'm not sure I'm familiar with that one."

Really? Because he's had plenty of them. At least with me.

"Addison."

"Hm?"

"What is a … proto-conversation?"

"A proto-conversation is where we – don't talk. We're going to talk, and something gets in the way, or you get paged, or I get paged, or your mom calls …."

I stop talking for a second.

I guess that isn't going to be an issue anymore.

(My former mother-in-law probably has the Hallelujah Chorus on repeat just thinking about it.)

"A proto-conversation." Derek is still looking at me. "So that's what we've been having."

"Among other things," I concede.

He looks at me for a moment, and then gestures to the guest chairs in front of his desk.

"You want me to sit?" I sound doubtful because I am.

"You want a formal invitation?"

I consider it. "Maybe."

He shakes his head. "Addison … did you ever think the reason we have so many proto-conversations is that you can't get to the point?"

Ooh. That one lands.

He's not even trying to hurt me, but he's Derek. He gets all As without even having to try.

I pull out a chair to sit while I formulate my answer.

(Sitting takes a minute in my skinny-skirt. A minute, and the professional version of a … shimmy.)

"A conversation takes two people," I say finally, once I'm seated, "and so does a proto-conversation."

Derek doesn't answer.

"And so does a divorce."

"Ah." He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I figured we'd get there eventually."

"We didn't get anywhere, Derek. I got … here. You're just sitting there waiting for me to do all the work so you can … judge it and act superior."

"That's what you think I do," he says. No question mark. Just like that.

"Yes. That's what I think you do." I fold my arms. "Go ahead and prove me wrong," I challenge him.

"How would you like me to do that, exactly?"

It's the polite version of what he hissed at me on the catwalk that day: what do you want from me, Addison?

It was my responsibility to tell him.

(I failed at it. I see that, I finally see that. Then, and now. But that's another story.)

Right now, right here, he's sitting at his desk with his legs crossed, his head cocked just enough that I think he might actually be listening. He's holding a pen in his hand now – stolen, no doubt, maybe it used to be mine – and drumming it every third beat on the desk. I could conduct a symphony to that predictable rhythm.

Maybe if I look closely in his desk drawers I'll find some other things he took from me. My dignity. Practically all of my thirties, and half my twenties too.

This thing, as Mark called it. This thing that's almost all of my adult life. Every year of my career from baby first-year to stalking the halls tormenting arrogant interns. Everything we did, even when we were apart, we did together.

He's still looking at me, waiting for an answer. Waiting for me to tell him what he can do to prove me wrong. To tell him what I want from him.

"Talk to me," I say finally, hating how small my voice sounds.

Here's the real answer, to a question no one asked me: I don't know how to picture my life without him as the center.

I just don't.

Whether he's in my bed or out of it, on my mind, halfway across the country while I close my eyes and try to fill myself with other things and other men … he's always been center.

That's Derek: his absence is louder than most people's presence.

And I don't know how to check out. I signed the papers, I said I wanted to be amicable and civil and all those things people say.

Those are words, that's all. Words that get said.

But I'm still me, and Derek is still Derek, and the way he's looking at me right now makes me think maybe – maybe – he still remembers me.

Even if it's just a little.

"Talk to you." He leans back in his chair, raising his eyebrows. "I can do that."

Oh, you could have fooled me.

He's just looking at me across the desk and I feel like we need a drumroll and some tumbleweeds for what feels like an old west standoff.

No one says anything.

So much for talking.

"You're ready to talk?" he says, finally.

"Yeah. I'm ready to talk."

Okay, wait.

Before I go on, I need to admit something. Something you've probably already figured out.

I'm lying.

Right here, to Derek, I'm lying.

And I was lying to Mark last night too.

And they're not unrelated.

Because this thing with Derek, it isn't over. It isn't over at all.

And I'm not ready to talk. Truthfully? I'm kind of terrified.

But I'm here, and Derek's here, an expectant expression on his face, waiting, and neither of us is getting paged and no one is interrupting us, so … here goes.

To be continued, obviously. I love these two even if they make each other - and us - miserable sometimes, but to paraphrase S2 Addison, at least they're talking about it? Stick with us and we will get you there. So. You know the drill. Reviews are my wine and my late-night Sloan visits, so make them happen, pretty please, and I'll get the next at-least-they're-talking chapter up as fast as I can.

Poetry credit to Margaret Atwood with heart-eye emojis galore.